Vanity Rock
by Mez
Summary: A famous race runs again after 15 years and Freedom Fighter base is in an uproar! Vinnie is convinced he will win, but a lot can happen on race day. Pain, heartache and hard lessons learned. Who will be the ultimate winner? (Tweaked)
1. Once I was a champion

**Pre-reading babble.** The idea for this fiction was inspired by something I read in one of Stoker1439's stories, New Year's Resolutions. In Stoker1439's fiction, Stoker was a long time champion of a famous race. From there, my brain led me by torturous routes to _Vanity Rock_. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer**. Stoker, Throttle, Modo, Vinnie, Rimfire and Carbine are not my characters. They are the property of whoever owns the Biker Mice from Mars cartoon. Everyone else is my creation.

Vanity Rock 

By Mez

Stoker flipped through the pages of the supply list, running a practised eye down the column, assessing the needs of the base. He rubbed a brown hand across his forehead, trying to relieve the tightness that hours of concentration had produced. A thick lock of brown hair fell across his vision and he pushed it back impatiently to join the twin ponytails lying across his shoulders. "Can we get those supplies from Chisolm? Or do we have to have them sent in from Brimstone?"

Carbine moved across to a large map of Mars pinned to the wall. She traced the path of the rail link with a sharp fingernail, tapping it on a red dot marked "Chisolm." We should be able to get most of it from Chisolm. The medicals however will have to come from Brimstone, as..."

_BANG!_ The door to Carbine's office burst open, propelling a mass of large, excited mice into the room, all of them shouting and talking at once. Rimfire was in front, yelling something Stoker couldn't interpret and waving a magazine. Modo, Vinnie and Throttle slammed into the table, scattering documents, also waving and shouting. Stoker glanced at Carbine's face and tried not to laugh.

"Bro, bro, it's awesome...!"

"You won't believe what they're gonna do..."

"15 years! And they're gonna start up again on..."

"Man, I'm gonna nail this one for sure! I was born for this!"

Stoker waited patiently for the babble to die down, then wondered when he'd acquired patience. "HEY!" he shouted.

This had little effect on the volume level however, as the mice had stopped shouting at him and were now shouting at each other. Carbine solved the problem by firing her blaster above their heads. Bits of rock rained down from the ceiling as Rimfire, Throttle, Modo and Vinnie stared at Carbine. Her eyes were slitted with rage, and she had her blaster aimed directly at the four mice. "Get. Out." She said, through gritted teeth.

"But babe, you gotta..." Throttle began.

Carbine snarled and aimed the blaster somewhere Stoker was sure she would regret shooting later. The guys exited the room with as much speed as they entered, leaving Stoker alone in the room with a very angry general. As she holstered her blaster, Vinnie's voice could clearly be heard.

"Is she on heat or somethin', bro?"

Carbine ground her teeth and her green eyes flashed. She whirled around to face Stoker, her black hair whipping around behind her. Stoker tried desperately to keep a straight face.

Later he wandered down to the mess hall, passing groups of excited Freedom Fighters everywhere. Whatever had excited the guys had obviously managed to excite the whole base and his curiosity, never very inactive, was piqued. The volume of noise in the mess hall was incredible. He made his was across to the servery, grabbed a plate of whatever was being presented as food today and looked for an opportunity to satisfy his curiosity. He found it in the form of Rimfire, seated in the middle of an excited group of younger Freedom Fighters. He tuned his ear to the conversation as he approached.

"No way Phase, with that bike, you'll need some major mods to even get past the heats."

"Yeah, well, we got six months! I'm going for it. I can do the mods in time."

"You and everyone else on this base. Parts are gonna be scarce."

"Are you going to compete, Rimfire?"

A young girl with a sweet face and pale gold fur was sitting beside Rimfire, gazing at him with ill-concealed adoration as she spoke. At just 17, Piper was the youngest Freedom Fighter on base, a trainee with Deakin in Operations. It was well known that she had a massive crush on Rimfire, one that the young stripe handled with maturity, Stoker thought.

Rimfire grinned at Piper. "Of course! And I've got an advantage over you guys already; Uncle Modo says he'll help me build a bike."

The guys around him groaned, and there were cries of "unfair!" Modo's skill at building bikes was well known; Li'l Hoss was a legend among the younger generation.

Rimfire laughed and looked up, noticing Stoker for the first time. "Hey, Stoke!"

People made room for him on the hard bench and he glanced at the young faces. Most of these kids were unfamiliar to him; he wouldn't be seeing them until they were more advanced fighters. He smiled to himself at the looks of awe. You didn't have to be a bike to be a legend, and he knew most of the stories going around. Rimfire took great delight in telling Stoker each new outrageous rumour that cropped up about him, and Stoker was pretty sure that Rimfire was responsible for one or two of the more ridiculous and fur-raising ones.

"Okay, I give up," he said. "What's all the excitement about?"

A circle of amazed faces met his gaze.

"You don't KNOW?" said one girl.

"How could you not know?" said the one Rimfire had referred to as Phase.

Rimfire snickered and tossed a magazine next to Stoker's plate. "Me and the guys tried to tell Stoker earlier, but Carbine, uh-" he glanced at Stoker, "they were busy working."

Stoker looked down at the magazine. On the front cover was a picture of an incredible racecourse, with some words splayed across the picture that made his heart lurch.

"Furnace Rock Racecourse Opens Again After 15 Years."

The table erupted into discussion again. He opened the magazine, Chopper Sand, and began to read, his meal forgotten. The racecourse, closed soon after the Plutarkian invasion, was to open again, with an inaugural race to be held in six months time. He skipped over information on the history, and read the specifications. Everything had been rebuilt as close as possible to the original course. Furnace Straight, Deadman's Curve, the Friction Zone, Salma's Ride, Twister, the Flyboy. Four jumps, all of them hell. And then there was the Funnel. Stoker closed the magazine and left the table. Deep in discussion, none of the others noticed.

Back in the dump he called home, Stoker knelt down beside the bed and began pulling out boxes. Clothes; no, field kit; no, medi-kit; no, some old magazines; no, old bike parts; no, how in the bloody sands did he manage to acquire all this junk? He dragged out the last box, turning to sit propped against the bed-frame as he inspected its contents. He pulled out 12 old and dusty trophies, dropping them casually beside him. Underneath were 12 old copies of Chopper Sand wrapped in plastic. He unwrapped the first one and looked at the cover.

Staring back at him was a much younger Stoker, holding a trophy and posing with a gold and black poem of metal and workmanship. Emblazoned across the side faring was "Hotstuff". He smiled as he thought of his current bike, Blue, a dusty and battered old fighting bike he loved to death. "_There's love and there's Love_," he thought to himself, tracing his finger over Hotstuff's sleek lines and curves on the page.

Stoker looked at each cover in turn. Twelve years in a row he'd been on the cover of the summer edition as winner of the Furnace Rock Championship. He looked pretty much the same in each shot; red and gold leathers, same face, same wild hair. No scars though. That was a shock, he was so used to seeing them now. Without them he looked young and fresh-faced. Hotstuff however was different in each shot; he'd given her all he had, and every year he'd come to the race with a new modification, faster, more powerful than the last time. They'd been an unstoppable team.

Stoker's fingers twitched as he came to the last cover. The shot had been taken just after his last win. He was still seated on Hotstuff, but had taken his helmet off and opened his jacket. His hair and neck were wet with sweat. He remembered how he'd felt at the time; his blood had been burning and his fingers trembling with exhaustion. He hadn't seen the cameraman, who had taken a backlit shot just as Stoker had leaned down and pressed his lips to Hotstuff's smooth, warm metal in a silent thank you. It was a beautiful shot and he loved it.

Stoker re-wrapped the magazines and tried to replace them in the box, but they wouldn't sit flat. He pulled them out again and fished around for whatever was underneath them. His hand encountered smooth metal and he froze. He brought the object out into the light. It was a metal pin, easily 8 inches long, with screws and plates along the length. His shoulder throbbed fiercely and he clenched his hand around the pin. "_How quickly we forget_." He remembered when the doctor had handed it to him, in silent reprimand. He smiled grimly.

_"It didn't work, doc. I never slowed down. I just stopped doing it for money."_

For weeks, the conversation in the mess hall consisted of the race, bike modifications, the race, scarcity of good parts, the race, who was going in the race and the race. Stoker would have been heartily sick of the whole thing if he hadn't been so interested. As it was he enjoyed the whole thing immensely, especially when it was discovered by the younger generation that he was 12 times Champion at Furnace Rock. _"And I'll bet I can thank Rimfire for that one, too,_" he thought. The awed stares and hushed tones of reverence used when discussing his prowess were feeding his much-neglected ego. And then there was Vinnie.

Absolutely one hundred percent certain he was going to be the next Furnace Rock Champion, Vinnie spent most of the time they were together telling Stoker exactly how he, Vinnie, was going to break Stoker's 17 year-old record. Stoker snorted and spent most of his time telling Vinnie that he was a punk kid who didn't have a rat's chance of winning, while secretly being pretty sure that Vinnie would be the next champion, barring accidents. "_At least he'll look the part. But there's no way he'll beat my record. Not on the first run, anyway._" He also spent a good part of his spare time sitting on the sofa with Throttle, watching Modo and Rimfire construct a perfect babe of a bike.

It was sweet little Piper who innocently started the whole thing. Sitting in the mess hall after dinner, she'd asked in her clear, young voice why he wasn't going in the race. He'd laughed and told her the thought hadn't crossed his mind. And it hadn't, until then. Stoker had no desire to interfere with a bunch of kids getting all excited about a big race. He'd had his day in the sun. Let them be.

Then he'd seen the look that Throttle and Modo exchanged. A cold feeling ran down his spine. "_They think I'm afraid to go back. They think I can't handle it_." Something burned in him then. Was it pride? Probably. Whatever it was he knew now that he had to go in that race, just one last time, to prove to himself and to everyone that it wasn't fear that held him back. That he could ride with the best of them. Whether he could beat them anymore he didn't know, but he was damn well going to find out.

Fletch was buried in the engine of an ATV when Stoker walked into the workshop.

"Be there in a minute," he said absently as he struggled with an over-tight bolt.

Stoker wandered over to the workbenches, examining Fletch's projects curiously, careful not to disturb anything.

"See anything you like, boss?"

Stoker smiled and turned to the older man. White fur was advancing across his muzzle and his ears were tipped with grey, but those were the only obvious signs of age on the old mechanic. "How's it going? Keeping you busy?"

Fletch snorted, gesturing around at the chaos that was his workroom. "What do you think?"

Fletch looked curiously at Stoker. "So what can I do for you, boss? You look like you got a sand-bug on your tail."

"I'm looking for some parts," Stoker said casually.

"You and every other kid on this base. I swear there's not a single one of them that isn't trying to get into that sandblasted race."

"Some...special parts."

Fletch looked into Stoker eyes for a brief moment. "Top shelf. In a box. Labelled."

"Thanks."

Fletch grabbed a spanner and moved back to the ATV. Stoker climbed up on the workbench to read the top shelf. Ran his finger along the labels on the storage boxes. No, no no- ah. There is was. Stoker sat on the workbench with the box in his hands. He pulled out old, burnt parts, bits of metal and finally a pack of circuit boards wrapped in anti-static sheets. Stoker glanced up and saw Fletch was watching him. "Is this all?"

"Yeah. The main AI is still there, but everything else is trashed."

Fletch went back to his ATV as Stoker unwrapped the AI boards. The edges were charred and twisted. His hands shook. A memory flashed across his mind, one he didn't really want to have. His shoulder ached with remembered pain. He clenched his fists then stretched out his fingers in an effort to relax his hands but they still trembled. He put the circuit boards back in the box and jumped down.

Fletch looked up curiously. "That all?"

Stoker was silent for a minute, then carried the box over to where Fletch was working. "I need a bike frame. Faring. New circuit boards. Motor. Hard fusion core. Wiring. Hoses."

Fletch looked startled. "Er, well...they'll be hard to find, you know. Heaps of people are getting ready for the race, and seconds are getting hard to come by."

"I want them new."

Fletch's eyes bugged out. "N-new?" he gurgled. "Stoker, that's going to cost a fortune! I'll have to order them in..."

"Well, go ahead. I've got the money." "_And nothing else to spend it on_," he thought to himself.

"What do you need them for?" asked Fletch.

"I'm going to rebuild Hotstuff." Stoker smiled grimly. "Like you said, there's a race on, and we're going." He paused thoughtfully. "I'd appreciate it if you kept this to yourself."

"Uh, sure," said Fletch. Stoker smiled. Fletch really only talked to machines anyway.

"Right. Give me a call when the first stuff comes in." Stoker moved to the door.

"You do remember your last race, don't you?" asked Fletch curiously.

Stoker paused in the doorway, remembering blood, and flames, and pain. Vividly. Which is why I need to do this."

Fletch flicked an ear. Stoked turned and walked out before Fletch could ask any more questions.

Two weeks later Fletch left a message saying that some parts had turned up. Stoker went down to the workshop, and the two of them spent the night working on the bike. They were weeks behind everyone else, but they had an advantage. They had done this many times before, and knew exactly what they were building. Hotstuff grew in a few short weeks from a frame and a memory into reality. She was leaner than Blue, sleeker and thinner, with half the weight and twice the speed.

Stoker and Fletch didn't say much as they worked; neither of them talked much anyway and there wasn't a lot to be said. Fletch had been there that day, had picked up the pieces of Hotstuff while Stoker was being put back together by a team of doctors.

When the body was constructed, Fletch began to mould the faring and Stoker started work on the AI. He pulled the neural chip from Hotstuff's old circuit boards, and transferred it to a brand new, top-of-the-line AI bike module. He installed all the peripheral boards and powered up the core. As the lights blinked on and systems started to run, he placed the AI board into its socket. He paused before seating it.

_"I wonder if she's till there? I wonder if she's mad at me? Will she be the same Hotstuff?"_

Stoker didn't care what anyone else thought; as far as he was concerned, each AI was different. They got used to their riders. Picked up all your moves and tricks, likes and dislikes. Moods too; Hotstuff had known him better than anyone and could tell by the way he rode how he was feeling.

_"It's been years. And I've changed. I wonder if it will be the same? Maybe I should have got a new AI."_

He looked at the body, already well on the way to being Hotstuff. She looked like Hotstuff. She should _be_ Hotstuff. He seated the board.

The lights flickered madly as the AI grabbed control of all the systems. He could see her testing them one by one. The engine burred and then settled to a familiar steady purr. He reached out a hand and laid it gently along her side.

"Hey beautiful," he whispered cautiously, "remember me?"

The engine spoke for her, rippling with power before settling again and he knew she was there, she was alive. He leaned his forehead against her smooth metal side and laughed softly. "Welcome back."


	2. Old wounds

Two months before the first heats were due to start, Stoker came into the mess hall to find it completely packed. Looking around, he spotted Throttle, Modo and Rimfire sitting at a table against the wall. He moved quietly over to join them. Throttle looked up in surprise as he sat down, but said nothing. Modo nodded to him, and drained his mug. Rimfire was talking animatedly to one of the scout teams. On the far wall, Deakin and his crew had set up a huge vid-screen, the silver meta-weave moving slightly, giving the surface a strange wave-like effect.

"Hey. HEY. Shut UP!" Thorn banged his mug on the table a few times for quiet. "All right. Since everyone is so keen on the race, and since so many of you have decided to enter, the race organisers have been kind enough to send me the tapes from the last 14 races." He grinned. "Stoke, you here?"

"Yeah" called Stoker. Many heads turned to look at him.

"Take a good look kiddies, because apparently Uncle Stoker is in 12 of these 14 races. In fact, rumour has it he won those 12. So take notes, you can ask questions later."

"We KNOW that Thorn!" shouted someone, "will you just get on with it?"

The crowd erupted into jeering and catcalls until Thorn signalled Deakin to run the vids.

_"13. I was in 13 of them,_" Stoker thought quietly. He knew Throttle and Modo were watching him, but remained staring at the screen.

Silence fell as the first race flashed up on the screen. Stoker lost himself in the transmission, reliving each curve, each jump, analysing his style as objectively as he could, which he admitted wasn't very objective. He liked the way Hotstuff moved, always smooth, and noted how his technique improved with each race. "_We had it all worked out,_" he thought pensively. "_I wonder what went wrong?_"

As each race ended, the crowd cheered and shouted his name. He smiled quietly, but his jaw was tense and his shoulder ached. The end of the 12th race was a storm of cheering and shouting, and Thorn raised his hand for silence.

"That, kiddies, is a 17 year-old unbroken record, although the race only went for another two years after this one. But that's what you have to beat." He grinned at the room. "Good luck!"

Then the 13th race began. There were murmurs from the crowd as they saw himself and Hotstuff line up with the rest of the pack. He leaned back against the wall and watched the screen intently. The lights went off and Hotstuff was speeding, no, she was flying along the track, running smooth and straight and clean. Their style was so changed from their first win. They'd known the track backwards, inside and out. He remembered the ease with which they'd outrun most of the pack. He never took the lead until the final straight however, using the speed built in the Funnel to power past whoever was in front of him. It was his signature style, a technique that had given them victory for 12 years in a row.

But not this time.

Stoker watched as he and Hotstuff flew towards the Funnel. There were only 2 riders in front of him, and he knew he could outrun them on a straight ride. Hotstuff had the speed, and the power. The camera angle changed as he went into the Funnel, showing the other riders coming out.

_"3...2...1..._" he counted mentally.

Hotstuff flew out of the Funnel, accelerating off the slingshot and they charged into the straight. His stomach lurched as he saw now what he hadn't seen that day; the second rider, coming out more slowly, had moved across his path. At the speed Hotstuff was going, there was no chance to avoid. He watched, not breathing, as Hotstuff slammed into the side of the other bike, catapulting the four of them to the side, and straight for a wall. Hotstuff slammed into it first, shattering into a thousand pieces. The other bike hit a millisecond later, exploding into flame. He watched the two bodies, one of them his, as they flew outwards. The other rider impacted with the wall, and even over the screams of the crowd he swore he could hear a sickening thud. And then the miracle; missing the outer edge of the wall by what must have been inches and tumbling across the packed sand until he came to a jerking stop. He breathed again, but it was ragged, and his heart was pounding.

On the screen, sirens wailed and the crowd was screaming; in the mess hall, absolute silence.

Stoker stood and spoke roughly into the silence. "Fun huh, kids? That's what happens when you come off your bike at 220mph." Every eye in the hall was upon him. He went on. "Oh, and in case you're wondering, I didn't get on a bike again for another 18 months. I didn't even walk for 12." He paused and looked around at the sea of astonished faces. "One of us was lucky that day. One of us slammed into a wall and died instantly."

Stoker turned and strode out of the hall. He heard the buzz of excited conversation starting up as he walked up the stairs. Back in his rooms, he went out to his balcony, rested his arms on the sill and put his head in his hands, breathing the cold night air deeply.

_"Stupid, stupid, stupid! When the hell did you get responsibility? What right do you have to deprive them of their fun? Let them be young and reckless while they can! Interfering old bastard._" The scene had rattled him, and he knew it. There was a cold ball inside him and his hands were shaking. He heard the door open. _"Ten to one it's Throttle."_

"Stoke?"

_"I win."_

He stood up. Throttle was holding a large bottle of amber liquid and carrying two glasses. Stoker held out his hand without saying a word and Throttle handed him a glass. He sloshed a liberal amount of alcohol into Stoker's glass, and less into his own.

Stoker gestured to the two battered old armchairs that sat on his balcony and he and Throttle took a seat. Stoker drank deeply, feeling the alcohol burn a fiery path through the cold place in his belly. His breathing calmed and he started to relax. There was silence for a while.

"I didn't think you'd want to see that again," murmured Throttle.

"I've never seen it. At least, not on camera." Stoker grimaced.

Another silence.

"So, how are they taking it?" he said cautiously.

"A fair bit of panic, I guess. There'll be some dropouts tomorrow."

Stoker nodded gloomily.

_"Better out than dead,_" said his conscience.

_"Shut up,_" said Stoker.

Rimfire walked into operations and stopped when he saw Stoker. Stoker looked up.

"Pull out?"

"No."

"Good."

_"What'd you say that for! Don't encourage him!"_

_"Shut up!"_

"--," said Rimfire.

"What?"

"I said, I was wondering if you'd, um, give me some pointers." Rimfire looked at Stoker's face. "But, hey, y'know, it's cool if you, um, don't want to talk about it."

"Love to, kid. Grab a vid and come see me tonight."

"Awesome!" Rimfire said and jogged out the door.

When Stoker came home, Rimfire was waiting for him, lying upside down in one of the battered old armchairs on the balcony, looking at the centrefold from the latest Chopper Sand; a delicious picture of a scantily-clad buxom lass lying full length on a fully-dressed chopped hog. Rimfire grinned and waved the picture at him.

"Nice," commented Stoker.

Rimfire dropped the magazine and made some complicated and extravagant hand gestures, indicating what he thought of the girl, or possibly the bike, Stoker wasn't sure. Rimfire rolled off the chair onto his hands in a perfect handstand and flipped to his feet, grabbed the magazine and strolled casually back into Stoker's rooms.

A battered couch sat in the middle of the main room in front of the wall-mounted vidscreen. A small and surprisingly neat kitchen was to his right, with a door on either side; one leading to a primitive shower and the other to Stoker's bedroom. There was a pile of boots in a corner of the main room and some bike parts spread out on old newspapers in another corner. Stoker's winter coat lay draped across a kitchen counter, where it would probably stay until next winter. The whole place smelt of dust, sweat, old leather and grease and Rimfire loved it.

Stoker kicked his boots off and onto the pile, removed his vest and dropped it beside the coat on the counter. He wandered into the kitchen and grabbed some drinks. Stoker returned and tossed Rimfire a can of drink, before flopping down onto the couch and closing his eyes, letting his breath out slowly and trying to relax his cramped shoulders and back. He heard Rimfire flop onto the other end of the couch.

After five minutes, Stoker opened his eyes and sat up. "Bring the vid?"

Rimfire dragged a data disk out of his pocket, walked over and inserted it in the data socket beside the screen.

As the race flashed up, Stoker recognised it as his 12th win. "Good choice." As the first race started, Stoker ran through what he knew and what he had been doing at the time, dredging up all his memories of the track, all the tips and tricks he could remember. He pointed out areas to avoid, how to approach the jumps, where to accelerate and decelerate on the curves. They went through the tape multiple times, until Stoker had told Rimfire everything he knew about the track and the race.

"The rest is just practice kid. Go find a nice bit of hard-pan and see how much you can throw your little lady around. Get used to her, and let her get used to you. Is she finished yet?"

"End of the week," Rimfire said, grinning. "We're painting her tomorrow night."

"Sands, kid, don't paint her until you've done your practice, or she'll look terrible on race day. And you never ask a lady to appear in public looking anything less than perfect."

Rimfire rolled his eyes. "Ok, coach. I'll hold off the paint until later."

"So what's her name?"

Rimfire grinned. "Shuga."

Stoker smiled. "Modo's idea, am I right?"

"Yeah." Rimfire grinned, then frowned as a thought occurred to him. "You're not giving pointers to Vinnie as well, are you?"

Stoker snorted. "Kid, the day Vinnie takes pointers from me, we'll both of us be working for the Plutarkians."

Stoker was enjoying a drink with Throttle and Modo at their pad when they heard Vinnie and Rimfire's bikes pull up. The door opened and a filthy and bloody Rimfire limped in, followed by an equally filthy but not bloody Vinnie, who was grinning like a maniac. Modo leapt to his feet in horror.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," said Rimfire reassuringly at his uncle's concerned expression. "We just had a bit of a disagreement on a curve, that's all."

Modo swung round and glared at Vinnie.

"Hey! It wasn't my fault! He cut me off!"

"It's true, Uncle Modo. I misjudged my speed and his speed and so we came a cropper. Unfortunately I'm the one who found the gravel."

Stoker got the familiar cold gut-feeling he always seemed to get nowadays when one of his kids was in trouble. "Rimfire-"

"Don't start, Stoke, I've heard it already."

Stoker shut up. Rimfire sat down carefully in one of the chairs, wincing. His shirt was torn to ribbons, and his fur was bloody from his right shoulder to his knee. He carefully started removing his boots. Throttle got up and headed for the kitchen, coming back with their medi-kit.

Rimfire grinned up at him. "I'll have a shower first and see what's left. Then Uncle Modo can have fun dousing me in antiseptic and giving me a lecture." Modo opened his mouth to speak but Rimfire threw a boot at him, before moving off to the shower.

"You've got to get him some leathers, Modo," said Stoker as they heard the hiss of the shower. "Otherwise he'll have no skin left by race time." Stoker glared at Vinnie. "And where are yours?"

"Where they always are," smirked Vinnie, unrepentant. "I didn't know the kid was going to wipe me today or I would have worn them."

"That's the whole point Vincent, you never know when you're going to come off."

"I never fall off. Anyhow, you never wear them."

"I wore them when I raced, as you two should have been today," Stoker snapped. He was angry with these blasted cocky kids who thought they were indestructible, although a small voice inside him was quietly pointing out that he'd once thought he was indestructible. He was feeling like a hypocrite and hating it, especially when that little niggling voice inside started prodding him about all the stupid mistakes he'd managed to live through. He stalked into the kitchen and grabbed another drink, taking a long swallow as he walked back into the room.

Vinnie grinned, dropped his helmet and bandoliers and flopped into a chair just as the shower stopped. Naked and damp, Rimfire stepped into the main room, then staggered and grabbed for the wall.

"Whoa!" he said woozily. Modo strode over and grabbed him around the waist, half carrying, half dragging him to the bedroom. There was a thump, a groan from Rimfire and a "Stay there" from Modo. He walked out, grabbed the medi-kit from the table and headed back into the room. They heard him speaking to Rimfire in low tones, and Rimfire answering in a slurred voice. Modo reappeared in the doorway.

"Will ya come and have a look at him, Stoke?" said Modo worriedly. "Ah think he's concussed."

Stoker followed Modo into the bedroom. Rimfire was lying flat on the bed, with a lovely case of road rash on his right side. His eyes were glazed, and he looked pale under the fur. Stoker leaned down and grabbed Rimfire's muzzle, pulling apart the lids of one eye to find a slightly distended pupil.

Rimfire groaned and rolled onto his left side. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Well, don't sit up," said Stoker. He turned to Modo. "Mildly, maybe, but nothing serious. See how he is in the morning."

Modo nodded and soaked a cloth in antiseptic liquid, pressing it gently against the raw flesh, causing Rimfire to yelp.

Stoker walked out of the bedroom, almost colliding with Throttle, who was walking in.

"Kid ok?"

"Yeah, he's ok. I'm off, see you later."

Throttle looked surprised. "You're not staying? There's a game on later."

"Not today. Got too much work to do."

"Well, come back when you're done and watch the game."

"Can't do it, rookie. If I don't get this done now it'll never get done."

Throttle frowned. "Tell Carbine she works you too hard."

"She works herself too hard, Throttle."

Throttle rolled his eyes. "Too true. If I got to see her for more than five minutes at a time, I'd tell her myself."

"Must be hell on the sex life."

"What sex life?"

Stoker chuckled, powered up Blue and headed back to base. Once out of sight, he turned and headed to Fletch's workshop. Sands, how he hated lying.

Fletch was loading Hotstuff onto a skimmer as Stoker arrived. Hotstuff was a pale grey colour in her new, unpainted faring. Fletch nodded at Stoker and pointed to a box on one of the workbenches. Stoker opened a compartment on Blue and pulled out a paper-wrapped bundle, which he dumped in the box before carrying it out to the skimmer. Blue blipped at him as he walked off.

"Back soon, Beautiful," he said reassuringly. He hopped into the skimmer and closed the door.

Fletch piloted them expertly out to an old, disused quarry. Stoker had checked it out on Blue a few weeks before and it would do for a practice field. It was also well off the patrol routes and away from prying eyes.

Fletch unloaded Hotstuff as Stoker took the parcel out of the box and opened it. The warm, animal smell of new leather hit him. He stripped down and pulled on the red and gold racing leathers. They fitted him like a glove, but were supple, without the usual stiffness of new leather. "_Money can buy anything_," he thought. He pulled on his old boots and walked over to Hotstuff. Fletch was tinkering, but stopped as Stoker approached.

"Ready?"

"Let's go."

Stoker slipped easily into the saddle, reaching for the clutch and kicking her out of gear. She turned over beautifully on the first start, her motor purring low and sweet, the familiar high-pitched whine of the turbines running in the background. He sat up and slipped on his helmet. Hotstuff was revving the engine, impatient to be off. He laughed.

"Easy girl, you'll get a run. Now let me drive."

She released control to him, and he felt her responsive power in his hands. He kicked her into gear, fed power to the throttle and they were off. She moved as lightly as a bird, responsive to his every command, power rippling through her and into him.

Stoker felt the beginnings of a familiar high as he opened the throttle more and sent her flying into a steep, banked turn. They came out of the turn perfectly and onto a long straight. He drove her to the limits of her speed, watching alternately the road and her readings. She was taking the run effortlessly and he knew then that they were as good a team now as they had been all those years ago.

He tested them both to the limit; jumps, sharp turns, quick acceleration and deceleration, pushing himself as hard as he pushed her. By the time they pulled up next to Fletch, it was late and Stoker was high on adrenalin and speed. He turned off the engine and stood, staggering a bit on the steady ground after the smooth motion of the bike. Fletch started pulling off the side faring while Stoker dropped to the ground and lay flat on his back, watching the evening sky and waiting for the high to subside.

Stoker awoke with a start. It was full dark. He looked around. Fletch had moved Hotstuff inside the skimmer; he could see Fletch working on her under the bright lights. Stoker grabbed his helmet and got to his feet. Every muscle in his body complained and he was exhausted, but it felt good.

Fletch looked up, startled, as he appeared in the doorway. "What time is it?"

Stoker looked at the clock on the control board and swore. "Late. We should have been back hours ago."

Stoker stripped out of the leathers and dragged on his old jeans and shirt as Fletch started to put Hotstuff back together. Piloting the skimmer back, Stoker relived the practice session, examining their moves and deciding where he could have applied more power, less power, earlier, later. He had worked out a routine for the next practice session by the time they reached the base. As he dropped the skimmer easily into its berth, Fletch finished putting Hotstuff back together, and wheeled her down the ramp and into the workshop. Stoker shut down the skimmer's control boards and carried Fletch's toolbox outside, dumping it on a workbench.

"See you tomorrow," he said, but Fletch was pulling off Hotstuff's faring again and muttering to himself, and Stoker knew he wasn't going to be missed. He smiled, mounted Blue and rode back to base.

Stoker opened the door to Carbine's office. Deep in thought over the practice session, he didn't notice the two figures sprawled across the desk.

"Hey!"

Stoker woke out of his reverie and then grinned at the two half-naked figures.

Carbine flopped back onto the desk, slapping a hand to her forehead. "Typical," she muttered.

"Don't you two have beds?" Stoker teased.

Throttle grinned at him.

"Are you here for a reason?" snapped Carbine.

"Just grabbing some more work," said Stoker, grinning widely. He picked up the files he had been working on that morning and beat a hasty retreat. He paused in the doorway. "You know, positions like that are really bad for the back."

Carbine grabbed a paperweight and flung it at him. Stoker closed the door hurriedly, chuckling to himself.


	3. Race Day!

The next few weeks leading up to the race were a blur for Stoker. Every minute of his spare time was taken up with practice. When he wasn't training Rimfire and Shuga, he was at the old quarry riding Hotstuff, or in the workshop with Fletch, sitting up until late adding modifications, tweaking her as close as they could to perfection.

Four days before the race he found a note from Fletch on his desk; 'urgent core see me'. Stoker shook his head as he tried to fathom the cryptic note. Oh well, best find out.

He arrived to find Hotstuff in pieces on the floor and Fletch muttering over something on the workbench.

Stoker looked around in dismay. "Fletch! What happened?"

Fletch looked up at Stoker, his eyes comically enlarged by the magnifying goggles he wore. "The housing for the fusion core had a flaw in it. I thought she was running a bit hot last night so I had a look. You've got a crack and some major leakage. The core's useless, Stoke."

"Damn! And I suppose we've got no replacements?"

"Sorry, boss, I'm all out."

Frustrated, Stoker ran a hand through his hair, before his eyes fell on Blue.

Fletch followed his gaze and shook his head. "No way, Stoke. Blue's core is too old, it would never stand up to a race."

"Do you have a better idea?"

Fletch stood and moved to stand beside Stoker. "Yeah. You could pull out."

Stoker stared at Fletch for a full minute before replying. "I'm not going to pull out." Stoker moved purposefully towards Blue.

The day of the race was as clear and perfect as anyone could wish for. The stands were packed with Martians, all glad of a little entertainment during the harsh days of the war. An air of festivity hung over the scene as red FF fatigues and green Army uniforms mingled freely in the mass of people.

Throttle and Modo were in the pits with the other support crews, setting up monitors and checking voice connections with their riders.

"No Carbine?" said Modo curiously.

"Are you kidding? A whole day without meetings? She's gone work crazy, I think she's trying to re-organise the entire base in one day."

"She just might, too."

"Sands, I hope not. The place is far too organised as it is."

Modo chuckled as Vinnie's voice came over the headphones.

"Yo, T-man, you reading me?"

"Yeah, I hear you Vinnie."

Modo was speaking into his mic. "Y'all ok out there, Rimfire?"

"Just fine, Uncle Modo."

"HEY!" shrieked Vinnie, causing Throttle to wince and grab at his ears. "What the hell is HE doing here?"

"Hey hey, easy on the ears, Vin-man! What's who doing here?"

"Stoker!"

"I guess he's watching the race, bro."

"Yeah? On a bike?"

Startled, Throttle glanced at Modo. By his expression, he was receiving the same information from Rimfire.

Modo looked at Throttle. "Rimfire says Stoker's out there on a bike."

"Yeah, that's what Vinnie said."

Throttle was about to reply when Fletch appeared beside them, monitor and headphones in hand. He nodded at Throttle and Modo before placing his monitor beside theirs and plugging in the leads. Readouts flashed up on his screen.

"Stoke, you reading me?"

Throttle turned to Modo once again. "Well, I'd say that confirms it, bro."

Modo nodded, his expression unreadable.

_"I hope you know what you're doing, coach_," thought Throttle.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the 37th Furnace Rock Championship Race!" The announcer's voice only served to heighten the excitement of the crowd, and the noise was deafening.

At the starting grid, Vinnie leaned over to Stoker. "What the hell are you doing here?" he hissed.

"Making trouble for you, punk, why else would I be here?" Stoker joked, and winked at Rimfire.

Rimfire snorted. "Have a good race, guys."

"You too kid, good luck," said Stoker.

"Yeah," said Vinnie, glaring at Stoker, "whatever."

A sudden hush settled over the crowd and the riders looked up at the grid lights. They flashed from red to orange, and adrenalin was palpable in the air. They flashed to green and the roar of the engines increased to a scream. Over the noise, the whine of the powerful turbines could be heard. The lights went out and the bikes leaped from the starting line as the crowd roared.

Vinnie leapt immediately to the front of the pack, Sweetheart's weight and power giving her an advantage over the lighter bikes.

Stoker settled somewhere in the middle and glanced around for Rimfire. _"Plenty of time yet. Just wait until the pack thins a little."_ Stoker spotted Rimfire to his left, keeping Shuga on the smooth, centre run of the track. Rimfire was fighting two other, more experienced, riders for the position and Stoker wondered how long he would hold it.

Stoker had no time to watch though, as the first jump was fast approaching, and he needed to get a clear run. He moved left onto the rougher edges of the track, slowing and letting the bulk of the pack pass him.

Sure enough, the first jump wiped out a quarter of the pack. Stoker took his time and chose a straight approach that allowed him to avoid the downed riders. His jump was smooth and clean, but he was now at the very back of the pack.

_"Let's pick up the pace, Hotstuff." _

In the pits, the support crews were talking with their riders and alternately watching their readouts or watching the race on the big overhead screens. Throttle glanced aside from his own screen to watch the main race. Stoker had dropped to the back of the group at the first jump, but was now making up time and passing rider after rider. Throttle didn't even have to look to know that Vinnie was still in the lead; Vinnie was telling him all about it.

"Aaaaowww!! I feel a new record coming oooooon!" he crooned.

Throttle winced and leaned over to Modo to be heard over the noise of the pits. "I wish he'd stop singing. Where's Rimfire?"

"Somewhere in the middle. He's doing alright."

Throttle nodded and turned back to the screen. The pack was fast approaching Deadman's curve and he winced again as he saw three more riders go down. "Any of those ours?" he yelled at Modo.

"Ah don't think so!"

The second jump cleared the field even more, and Throttle could now easily separate the competitors. Stoker had moved from the back of the pack to sixth place, and was now just behind Rimfire. In front of them were three riders Throttle couldn't identify, and Vinnie, who was STILL singing.

"Geez, bro, give it a rest, will you? My ears!" Throttle moaned.

Modo chuckled at his words and was about to speak when Fletch leaned across in front of Throttle and grabbed Modo's arm. "Stoker says tell Rimfire to straighten up NOW," he said urgently.

Modo relayed the information. Onscreen, Throttle saw Rimfire glance behind him then alter his approach to the narrow opening to the Friction Zone. He shot through the opening, closely followed by Stoker, and the two were lost to camera vision.

"Yo T-man, you still with me?"

"Here, Vinnie, what's wrong?"

"I was going to ask you if my path was clear coming out, but hey, I'M IN FRONT! AWOOOOOOAHOOO! AH HA HA HA!"

Throttle groaned and put his hands over his eyes. This was pure torture.

Stoker watched Rimfire alter his course slightly and nodded with approval. The approach to the Friction Zone, a narrow gap between two rock walls, had always been a tricky one. He didn't need to look behind him to know that more of the pack was going to go down there. The noise in here was phenomenal, magnified as it was by the close walls. He saw Rimfire disappear around the last curve and a second later shot out into Salma's Ride, a long, clean straight which was a blessing after the confines of the Friction Zone.

_"Time to assess the competition_," he thought grimly. Rimfire was no problem; he had a great bike but was too inexperienced to be a real threat. Even so Stoker hoped he would do well. But now he looked to the leaders; the four riders he had to beat to reach first place. He didn't know any of them except Vinnie, but by the way they rode, they knew what they were doing. He watched as one by one they went through the Twister, a run of sharp chicanes that had to be taken with nerves of steel at high speed. One slip and bike and rider would be down and out. His gut tensed as Rimfire approached.

_"Come on kid, you can do it!"_

Rimfire rode in fearlessly, flinging his bike from side to side to match the sharp curves. Stoker breathed a sigh of relief as Rimfire and Shuga came through intact. He was seconds away from the entrance himself when a black bike came out of nowhere and flashed by him.

Reflexes he'd forgotten he had prevented him from losing control as he swung wide to avoid a collision. But the rider's tactic had worked; Stoker was on a bad angle to enter the Twister and had to slow down considerably or risk losing control on the severe curves. He could feel his heart pounding and adrenalin pumped through his veins.

_"You bastard! Where the hell did he come from?_" Stoker fumed. The rider, already on the next straight, looked back at him. Stoker couldn't see through the faceplate, but he had the feeling there was a smirk on his face. _"Right. You want to play it that way, you got it."_

Out in the straight, he poured power into Hotstuff and she responded beautifully, winging across the tarmac with effortless speed. They flashed by Rimfire and two other riders before Stoker was on the black bike's tail. He pulled alongside and moved to pass but the other rider swerved towards him, making Stoker pull back. He swore. Together they passed another rider and then the straight began to narrow as the entrance to the Flyboy approached. Stoker ground his teeth. If he got in first, he could make up valuable seconds, but if he missed it, he only had one more straight before the Funnel. And this bike was as fast as Hotstuff on a straight run. Maybe faster.

"Whoa, harsh move!" said Modo as the black bike flashed past Stoker and into the Twister. There were murmurs from around him. A crowd of Freedom fighter crews and riders had gathered around them as one by one, the other FF riders had gone down. Vinnie, Rimfire and Stoker were the last Freedom Fighters in the race and everyone had gathered around to watch and cheer.

Throttle watched as Vinnie approached the Flyboy. This was one of the worst jumps of the course; four rock pinnacles in a zig-zag pattern. There was nowhere to pick up speed so if the rider lost momentum, his race was over. Vinnie had no problem though; Sweetheart flew like a bird across the four plateaus.

"Do you think he's angry?" said Phase, as Stoker and Hotstuff tore after the black bike and rider. Throttle nodded but didn't say anything as he watched the two bikes approach the Flyboy. There was a groan from the crowd as the rider of the black bike dove forward and leapt onto the first pinnacle of the Flyboy ahead of Stoker.

"Well, he's stuck now. And probably even madder," said Throttle.

Modo nodded distractedly as Rimfire approached the Flyboy.

A full second behind the black bike, Stoker ignored everything around him as he strove to make a clean run through the flyboy. Safe on the other side, he looked up to see Vinnie in front of him. The black bike had passed Vinnie. The other rider was nowhere in sight; he mustn't have made it through the Flyboy. Which left three bikes in the running for first; the black bike, Vinnie and himself.

And the Funnel was approaching fast. Stoker poured on the speed and moved slightly left. He'd have to take it at maximum speed and count on the slingshot effect to build his speed enough to pass.

_"Come on, Baby. Give me everything you've got."_ Stoker poured on the power as he approached the Funnel. Intent on his quarry, he spared no more than a fleeting thought to the last time he had entered the Funnel. There was only one thought in his head. _"I have to win."_

The crowd in the pits groaned as Rimfire lost it on the last jump, landing hard on the deadfall beneath the plateaus. Modo called his name urgently over the helmet mike. He listened intently for a moment then removed the headphones with a sigh.

"Is he ok?" asked Throttle.

Modo nodded and Throttle relaxed. He was about to speak when his ears were blistered by a stream of cursing from Vinnie.

"Where the hell did he come from?" wailed Vinnie as the black bike sailed past him. "And how the heck is he so fast?"

Throttle shook his head but didn't reply. Vinnie was fighting to catch up as the two riders approached the Funnel, but the black bike was much lighter than Sweetheart.

"That bike's got the advantage on a straight run, Vinnie. And after the Funnel, that's all there is left."

"Well, I'm not giving up yet! I won't give the trophy up for anyone! This is my race!" Vinnie yelled. Throttle winced again and was about to reply when he heard Fletch's urgent voice.

"Stoker, slow down, she heating up far too fast."

Throttle couldn't hear Stoker's reply, but whatever it was, it didn't make Fletch look happy.

"Stoker, it's an old core! It can't take this sort of prolonged drain!" Fletch's voice was tense. Throttle leaned across to him.

"What do you mean it's an old core?"

"I mean it's an old core. It's Blue's core."

"Blue's core? In a racing bike? What the hell did you put it in for?"

The old mechanic turned and glared at Throttle. "Because I felt like doing something really stupid! How's that? Answer your question?" he snapped.

Throttle opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say. He turned back to the monitor as Stoker and Hotstuff flew into the funnel.

Stoker rode the wall of the tunnel as high as he dared, feeling the g-forces dragging at the bike, trying to pull them down. He held her up there, fighting centrifugal force, waiting until it snapped back and released all it's power into them. The exit approached and Stoker drove Hotstuff down to the floor, feeling their speed increasing, hoping it would be enough.

Everyone waiting in the pits held their breath as Hotstuff screamed out of the Funnel, the slingshot effect sending her speed bar flying to the top. A warning beep started up as the readouts began to edge up into orange.

"He's pushing her too far!" groaned Fletch, rumpling his hair in distress. One of the bars jumped into the red danger zone and he groaned again. Hotstuff's speed was still increasing and the readouts were phenomenal. Another bar went to red and Fletch ground his teeth in frustration.

"What happens if all those bars go red?" asked Throttle nervously.

"If he drops her speed now, she should be okay. But if that last bar goes to the red, that's it. The core goes boom and so does she."

"Oh momma," whispered Modo.

On the track, Stoker flashed past Vinnie at what felt like the speed of light. The final straight opened up and he kept the throttle on full. The black bike was in front of him, then gone. Stoker looked up in time to see the race display flick over to "New Record: Stoker" but he was past before he could register the numbers. No matter. He'd broken his own 17 year-old record and nothing in the world could ever beat this feeling.

Onscreen in the pits, the last bar pushed into the red and the warning blare reached a crescendo.

"Too late! She's going up! Stoker! _You've got to get off that bike!"_

Every light on his readout was red and Hotstuff was moving like a tank instead of a bird. Just another few hundred metres! There was a roaring in his ears and he could hear Fletch's urgent voice. Then he was over the line, the crowd was screaming, Hotstuff was screaming and the adrenalin screamed through his veins in counterpoint. He eased off the throttle and rode the wave of victory as Hotstuff's speed marker dove out of the red. Fletch was still shouting at him, but it was background noise to the roar of victory in his ears. He slowed some more, and the roar died down enough for him to finally register what Fletch was screaming at him.

"STOKER! _GET OFF THAT BIKE!"_

Stoker looked down in time to see the readings blink off entirely and threw himself off as Hotstuff exploded in a blaze of light and fire.

Someone was taking off his helmet. Gently. This was a good thing, because his head ached. He opened his eyes. The red sky moved in a way that made his stomach lurch. There were people around him, talking urgently, shouting. He wished they would shut up for a minute. A head came into view, someone familiar. Tan fur. Throttle? Could be. The head was speaking to him. Words. Don't move. Don't move? Why move? He was comfortable here, warm sun, soft sand. Stay here a while.

Then the pain began and he blacked out once more.

Throttle sat in a chair by the bed, alternating between watching the readouts and watching Stoker. Rimfire was lying on the bed against the other wall, still in his leathers and half asleep. Modo stood by the window, looking out.

Stoker stirred and mumbled something. Throttle grabbed his hand.

"Coach. Hey Stoke, wake up." Throttle shook his shoulder gently.

Modo moved over to the end of the bed, and Rimfire jerked out of his half-doze. Stoker's hand between Throttle's fingers twitched and he opened his eyes. He looked around dazedly for a moment before noticing Throttle.

"Hospital?" he said weakly.

"Yeah."

Stoker pondered this for a moment, before trying to sit up.

"Hey, no way bro, you stay there," said Throttle, pushing him down.

"I don't feel that bad."

"That's because you're doped up on a lovely cocktail of drugs," chuckled Rimfire as he came into Stoker's view. Stoker smiled wryly.

"How'd you go, kid?"

"Came a cropper on the last jump. Didn't hit it straight enough," Rimfire said, grinning.

"Told you that, you gotta turn sharp after the last corner and get her as straight as you can."

"I know. I'll get it next year."

"Good for you." Stoker closed his eyes for a moment, feeling suddenly old and tired.

"Vinnie's back," said Modo, as they heard the roar of his bike from below. Sure enough, in a few moments they heard the sound of running feet and Vinnie, sweaty and dusty, burst through the door. He had his helmet in one hand and two trophies in the other, all of which he dropped in a pile by the door, dumping his jacket on top. He moved cautiously to the edge of the bed.

"What did the doc say? Is he gonna be ok?" he asked nervously.

"Yeah, he'll be alright. Apparently it's not as bad as it looks. He'll be up again in a few days," said Throttle.

Vinnie let out a sigh of relief and nodded composedly. Then he leapt.

"YOU BASTARD!" he screamed, diving towards Stoker. Modo and Throttle grabbed him before he could reach Stoker.

"Vinnie! What the hell are you doing?" snapped Throttle.

"I'M GOING TO KILL HIM, THAT'S WHAT!" shrieked Vinnie in rage. "YOU FREAKING SON OF A BITCH! THAT WAS MY RACE! I WAS GONNA NAIL THAT UNTIL YOU STEPPED IN, YOU..."

"I thought you were coming second," said Stoker unthinkingly. Vinnie became, if possible, even more enraged. Throttle and Modo dragged him to the door and out into the corridor.

"Way to defuse the situation, coach," chuckled Rimfire, dropping into Throttle's seat. He peeled off his jacket painfully, wincing as the bruised muscles complained. He dropped it on the floor and leaned back.

"Hell of a race though. And your finish was...interesting," Rimfire said, grinning at him wickedly.

Stoker smiled tiredly. "Wasn't to plan, that's for sure."

The shouting and angry voices from outside stopped suddenly. Curious, they looked up, to see Fletch walk through the door. His face was blank, but his eyes were angry. Without a word he walked across and shoved something into Stoker's hand, then walked out. Stoker looked down at his hand, and felt his heart constrict. He closed his hand hurriedly.

"What is it?" said Rimfire curiously.

"Nothing, kid," Stoker said, fighting the pain in his chest. "I, look, I could do with some rest. Give me some time, ok?" His voice broke.

"Sure," said Rimfire, glancing briefly at him. He got up and walked out, closing the door carefully behind him. Voices started up again in the corridor.

Stoker opened his hand. On his palm lay Hotstuff's AI chip, cracked clean across the centre. She was dead, really dead this time. He closed his eyes and gave in to the grief.

_"Oh beautiful_," he thought, swallowing against the tightness in his throat, _"I'm so sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me. My own vanity. My stupid pride. And now you're gone forever_."

He clenched his hand around the chip, feeling the edges bite into his palm. He held on until the blood flowed, but drugged as he was, he felt little pain, and no relief from the aching grief in his chest.

THE END


End file.
